


The Prince and The Gardener

by waterboilers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (brief) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bullied Bucky Barnes, Bullies (brief), Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Courting Rituals, First Meetings, Flowers, Gardener Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecure Bucky Barnes, Language of Flowers, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Sam Wilson, POV Steve Rogers, Pining, Pining Steve, Pining Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prince Bucky Barnes, Princes & Princesses, Racism, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, i guess, kind of, that happened in the past, the writing style changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterboilers/pseuds/waterboilers
Summary: The story of a lonely prince and a pining gardener.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & May Parker (Spider-Man), James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Kudos: 13





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I got the inspiration for this from an Instagram post that was taken from Tumblr (social media can be great you guys). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> PS. I know, I'll work on the summary once I finish this.

He wakes up to the throbbing pain in his left shoulder, an ache he has grown accustomed to but still isn’t able to ignore. It’s worse in the gloom of the night when the darkness has fallen and the sky has clouded over, hiding even the sight of the stars he so adores, sometimes spending full nights sitting by his window admiring them, studying them through his spyglass while the pain keeps him from sleeping and the sky is clear for him to observe it to all of his heart’s content. Now, however, the sky is morose and no matter how appealing stargazing is to him, the weather strips him of the chance of it even being a possibility. He sighs as he sits upon his extravagant bed, looking through the big glass doors leading to his own private balcony, facing the exquisite gardens outside. Getting up with some difficulties due to his tense muscles and stiff arm, he peers at the time from his pendulum clock that stands in the far corner, beside the entrance to his private lavatory, which holds the bath that he occasionally spends hours soaking in, taking in the warmth and letting his whole body relax and unwind.

He goes to the drawers, takes out some soft, light trousers, worn from wear and puts them on, again with some complications. Pulling them up his bare, somewhat hairy legs goes smoothly enough but tying them is another predicament on its own. Times like these, when his scarred left arm is stiff and painful to do anything with, even a chore as minimal as putting trousers on feels enormous for him. Adding the lack of sleep, it takes him some time to try and get the trousers to hang on to his hips securely. Finally, he grunts in his frustration and pulls the strings as tight as they go, stuffing them in the waistband of the old trousers and deems it good enough. Lighting the candle that he makes sure is always on his bedside, has become a habit of a sort and he manages this without any troubles; all these sleepless nights and the need for light has made him an expert in the art of lighting candles and lanterns only using one hand. He pulls the sleeve to cover his left arm completely, opens the massive doors, grabs the candle by its handle with his good arm and setts off into the silence of the halls after nudging the entry to his chambers closed with his hip.

The man has the layout of the castle memorised, he could walk the way to the library blindfolded if need be. Not many people use the library; it’s open to all of the residents and staff, but not many utilise it often. If they do, they just come in, get the books they need and leave just as quickly as they came. As he makes his way to the place that has become his safe haven, his eyes pay attention to the numeral shadows the thick candle makes on the floor and the multiple paintings that litter the walls and make the hallways seem even longer and emptier than they are in reality, making sure that his hearing hasn’t betrayed him and he is truly the only one wandering around in the late hour. 

After a trek, lasting a few moments that felt like hours to him, the prince finally reaches the lofty doorway to the library. He turns the iron holder and steps in quietly, closing the hefty door behind him without a sound. Sighing in relief at the quiet he was able to maintain, he makes his way to the upper level of the monumental space to his spot by the windows, to a majestic but truly comfortable, deep blue armchair. He sets the candle in the small table that is situated on his left side, taking the book from it that he is reading into his lap. _The Chemical Wedding_ is not the newest book but it’s so different from anything that Bucky has read so far or even has in his impressive collection. “Johann Valentin Andreae was truly a genius”, he thinks as he turns to the correct page that his bookmark is in between. Before he starts reading, he sets aside with the utmost carefulness he can manage the delicate, dried flower, a purple statice that he had pressed attentively between the biggest book he was able to find in the entire castle and now always uses as a bookmark. He had had the flower for what felt like ages; as he now looks at the fragile little thing, he remembers finding the single vibrant blossom in a small glass vase on this very same table that he now always keeps the books he’s reading at the moment on. He had just returned after the accident, been at home for a week at most and during that short time, he had spent almost the entire time in the quant library, finding solace in its absence of people; he didn’t want to see anyone and had refused to speak to anyone except his older sisters and of course, his doctor, for a full month.

Shaking the unpleasant time out of his thoughts, the royal tucks away his growing dark tresses behind his ear and continues reading the extraordinary tale. James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky as he likes to be called by the ones who know him, has always, for as long as he can remember, enjoyed reading. In his childhood days, the young royal had even written a few stories himself, entertaining his older sisters with his silly childhood rambles and imaginative characters. As can be seen, fiction has always been his favourite genre. Even though he doesn’t write anymore, doesn’t think he could even if he had the courage to try again, reading has always been an escape to him, especially after his injury.

Still in the recovery stage of his healing even though the incident, as he refers to it in his head, unable to think about the happenings intentionally, occurred several months ago, he had read every genre there is, from the history books and autobiographies to science and the fiction that he so loves. He even remembers skimming through a botanical book once, filled with interesting and some less interesting knowledge about the nature his home is surrounded by; the book even had chapters such as _How the Nature Heals_ and _The Meaning of Flowers You Don’t Think Twice About_. Bucky had enjoyed the book only by the fact that it showed him a different vocabulary that he was used to; his interest in nature had never been the greatest, at least not when compared to his passion of all things unearthly; the sky, the moon and everything beyond.

He begins reading the page he started on again, now fully focusing on the exciting story, not wanting to read it without appreciating the excellence of the writer, but to fully immerse himself in the book and get lost in the new world it paints in his mind. The novel takes him on a journey of adventures and without his knowledge or permission, he finishes the final page of the saga. The young prince of 26 years lifts his head and squints against the bright sunlight that has been streaming from the large windows for a few hours now, perhaps two at best. Rolling his shoulders he puts the delightful book back onto the table and blows out the almost burnt out candle; he will have to remember to get a new one before dusk. It’s only dawn but Bucky can already hear some distant clanking from the kitchens that are directly below the splendid library. Taking one last look at his precious flower, he makes his way down the creaking stairs to the entrance and out to the lengthy halls, deciding to get some breakfast before checking the almanack made for him for possible additions to his days’ schedule which is to his knowledge blissfully empty unless you count the daily family dinner that all of the members of the close family always try, if possible, to attend. His oldest sister, Queen Rebecca should be returning from her travels around the kingdom today; he can’t wait to see her.

Bucky makes a stop in his quarters to place the spent candle with its intricate, copper handle on his dresser. Just before he makes his way to leave again, he realizes he is only wearing his soft, handmade wool socks and decides to grab his most simple and pleasant pair of shoes that he owns. As he’s stepping out of the entrance to the corridor, Bucky almost runs into one of the numeral servants that work in the castle.

“Oh!” Bucky explains as he tries to stable himself and the attendant who is stumbling his way through apologies, he notices that the young man is someone he knows, unlike most of the staff who are too intimidated by him to even be in his presence above any necessities.  
“Peter. Are you hurt?” Bucky asks quietly. “No, Buー I mean Your Royal Highness. I-I’m perfectly okay. You know me, just being my clumsy self as usual”, Peter answers flustered. Bucky rolls his eyes fondly at the nephew of one of the cooks as he listens to Peter stumble his way through an answer. They’ve known each other for a while now, Bucky finding the youngster’s chaotic presence weirdly calming but mostly amusing as well. Also, Peter is one of the few workers that actually talk to him, not just tremble when they see him, immediately running away when they get the first chance to do so. “I’ve told you many times now that it’s okay to call me Bucky”, he answers Peter with a short chuckle. “Well, yes I know but aunt Mayー”. “Peter, I know that your aunt says that you should call us by our titles but I’m telling you that I want you to call me Bucky. However, not that you’re here, do you mind helping me with something quickly?” Bucky interrupts Peter gently. After Peter nods once with an understanding look in his eyes, they step back into Bucky’s abode that he is truly protective over. But the two unexpected friends have developed a routine of sorts that has made Peter a comfortable presence in Bucky’s mind with the help he has offered him when Bucky had felt the most uncomfortable.

“The black one today?” Peter asks as he reaches into the small wooden box that Bucky keeps on top of his dresser, where it’s convenient for Peter to look through. “Yes, thank you”, Bucky answers as he sits on a padded wooden stool. “You got it, boss”, Peter answers jokingly as he takes the black silk ribbon and a comb from the small box he had gifted Bucky the first time they talked. Bucky smiles a little, a private smile just for himself, as he recalls seeing Peter after his return home, Bucky hadn’t even said anything when the teenager had asked the youngest prince if he could help “Your Highness Roayl, I mean um Your Royalnessー no um sorry I’m really new at this Your Princeness” with his hair. Peter had seemingly noticed that no one except his family had really approached the prince that had returned from the fight ostensibly a different man; quieter, reserved and with a haunted look in his eyes and a left arm that didn’t work anymore the way it was supposed to.

The charming, social butterfly that had left them to defend his country and protect the ones he loved the most returned a war hero, a traumatised, injured war hero none the less. In his state of mind, Bucky had only been able to stare at the selfless boy in front of him who wasn’t, to Bucky’s surprise, scared of him, only nervous because of his status and Peter’s overall awkwardness that he couldn’t seem to shake. Finally, when Peter had started to visibly squirm under Bucky’s gaze, Bucky nodded stiffly, gesturing Peter into his room with a jerk of his head. Peter had gulped down his nervous rambling for a minute or so until he couldn’t help himself and started talking about nothing and everything; his aunt, starting to work in the castle while Bucky was gone and how he had noticed that dealing with longer than the usual hair might be hard if you couldn’t use both arms. Peter also talked in length how he had always loved braiding and playing with his aunt May’s hair, while at the same time trying to carefully comb through all the knots in Bucky’s hair without hurting him. Bucky had sat at the same exact stool he was sitting now, bewildered, not knowing how he should act. After he had returned home, he had forgotten to even think about things like his hair and couldn’t believe someone, a stranger to him, had cared enough to try and help him. Back then Peter had solved all the tangles of his hair that, admittedly, took a long moment to achieve and braided his hair in a short but neat braid that he had excitedly talked to Bucky about: “It looks so much better now Mr Prince! N-not that it was bad before or anything but I just meanー um yes.”

In the present, Peter had quickly gone over his flustered state and was now brushing Bucky’s hair, now much better looked after than it had been only months ago. Bucky disturbed Peter’s ramblings of he and his best friend Ned’s adventures for just enough time to ask for the specific thing he preferred Peter to do today. Confirming it, Peter continued to babble about how one of the stable worker’s had kicked the two boys out after they had disturbed the horses, Peter not agreeing with this: “We just wanted to pet them, I swear! They were so cute and lovable!” Unlike their first hair styling session, now Bucky was humming in the right places and asking questions when Peter had to stop talking for a second to breathe. Bucky felt grateful for Peter’s friendship, he couldn’t express it to Peter yet but he knew the kid had helped him through the darkest moments when he forgot to do anything except the bare necessities while lost in the terrors that he couldn’t forget about, pulling him back with his rants and his positive personality. 

When Peter finishes tying Bucky’s hair in a beautiful but simple chignon, tying the ribbon into a sleek bow, he runs out the door with an “I have to go, Ned and I are going to feed the horses!” Bucky laughs out loud at his words, knowing that no one could stay mad at Peter for more than a few days, the horse caretaker must have forgiven the boys a long time ago. As the door slams shut behind Peter’s retreating back, still chuckling Bucky stands up and goes to the farthest corner of the room, to look into the bronze framed mirror which he has all but hidden. He doesn’t like admitting it but Bucky doesn’t feel comfortable looking at his reflection. The way the war had changed him, physically and mentally, still takes him by surprise, sometimes when he walks by reflective surfaces unexpectedly he is startled by the face looking back at him; his sullen eyes, now long hair and bigger, more masculine physique makes him think about the young socialite he once was, spending all his times in balls and outings with multiple people at a time. Now that the things he went through have changed him, none of those people cared enough about him to see how he’s doing; none of them were his true friends. Bucky has only now learned how uncaring people can be when he’s not the perfect aristocrat he used to be, when his reputation isn’t what it was because he risked his life for others and did what he had to to get home. 

His eyes finally stop scanning his body and he turns his gaze to the handsome coiffure Peter had so kindly created for him. At last, he straightens out his clothes and makes his way to the halls, undisturbed this time, admiring the view from the numerous windows as he walks downstairs to the kitchens that are bristling with life. The first thing he had made sure when he came back was that his food was only taken to him when asked, he didn’t want the arrangement that he had before to continue, that someone would always come by and wake him up and that his food was always delivered to his quarters. Even though his sisters almost forced him to eat in the beginning, these days he can get his own food without worrying his older siblings; he knows he’s the lastborn, the baby to his sisters, and while he appreciates everything they do, he needs to feel in control of his life now, to choose what he eats, when he eats and where he enjoys his meals. 

That’s why as he walks in through the double doors, he knows everyone at least by face and a few even greet him with a simple nod or a quiet “Good morning Your Highness”. Though the one he is the closest to is Peter’s aunt May, May Parker, perhaps the sweetest and kindest woman Bucky has met outside his own immediate family. Their conversation is short because of her unending hurry and his inability to still hold decent interactions while being comfortable, however, she manages to quickly point him towards the freshly baked scones that are cooling of in the racks by the wall. Bucky continues his new custom, taking out a metal serving tray that May always fills with the crockery he usually needs. Additionally, the tray always holds a flower, different almost every day. Bucky has never asked about the flowers, assuming that May just wants to brighten his day and picks a flower at random from the palace gardens, but appreciating the gesture all the same. He had gotten a flower daily from almost the beginning of their unspoken settlement. Bucky had saved every single one; first putting them in a dazzling glass vase while they’re fresh, presenting it in front of his in his bedroom. Then when the flowers start to wither, he dries them, displaying them on a parade place on one of the walls in his chambers. Grabbing two scones, some fruit and newly brewed tea, he settles everything he has on his tray, continuing his way out of the stuffy kitchen.

Back in the falls, Bucky makes a spontaneous decision to eat in the garden for once. It’s the beginning of summer, he knows it’s warm enough even in his unformal attire to enjoy a moment in the sunshine. Before he makes his way outside, he decides to go first to the library and take a book with him to accompany him while he eats. He does this almost daily, eating in the library or his room, the lack of books there not a problem in the least. In the library, he opens the door slowly with his elbow and setts the tray on a nearby table with care. He walks up the stairs second time that day and chooses one of the books on the table that he had taken wanted to read before, always keeping a small collection there where he can easily move on to the next book without pause. Taking another adventure story he had found intriguing, he carries it down normally and opens the door. Then he has to place the book between his bicep and his side, so he can situate the tray on his whole arm, from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. Managing this, he pushes the door closed with his hip as he leaves, finally able to go start the short journey to the extensive gardens.

Nearing one of the doors at the back of the castle, Bucky briefly wonders if he has to put everything down again to be able to open them, he knows that he could just shout and surely someone working there would hear him. He doesn’t really feel like that’s what he should do and thankfully he doesn’t need to worry about finding a table; just as he’s reaching the outside doors, a small figure comes from another hallway and exits the doors, leaving them open accidentally for just the moment it takes Bucky to slip through them. Signing in relief, he stops and takes in the sight, a vast sea of flowers of all colours, hedges, trees and gravel roads leaving deeper into the garden. There’s also a pond a little further, out of sight from where he is situated but he always likes to admire it from his spot high in the library. Unfamiliar with most of the garden, Bucky decides to step off in the direction of the large pond, knowing that there are beautiful trees he could sit under, spend the morning nibbling on his food and reading a hopefully another brilliant book. 

As he ventures deeper and deeper into the depths of the well-kept nature, appreciating everything his eyes can see as he goes, Bucky spares a thought to the gardeners that must work hard to keep the space looking the way it is. He passed a few of them during his walk, all of them too busy in their toil to pay attention to a lonely prince walking by. Before, he didn’t care about quotidian things like the nature he has always been surrounded by, too busy thinking about everything and everyone else to spare it a second thought. Now though, as he sits down beneath a magnificent apple tree, its flower blooming bright white, equal to the colour of the flower on his breakfast tray, he couldn’t feel more at peace, his body finally relaxing, his mind at rest. Bucky settles the tray on the ground dropping the book in the process. As he makes himself comfortable on the cut grass, he lifts the book, placing the flower May must have picked for him ontop the novel. A gardenia, he remembers as he marvels at the pleasing simplicity the sole flower possesses. He smiles to himself and closes his eyes still holding the flower gently in his hand, he needs to get himself together and thank May for these little but surprisingly cheering gifts he has received.

Shaking the pleasant thoughts out of his mind, Bucky props the novel against his bent legs and starts eating his breakfast. The scones and the tea have cooled down a little in all of his hassles, but Bucky doesn’t let that ruin his mood, his left arm at last feeling more numb than painful and the environment, the smells and the peaceful sounds of birds, the wind and distant discussions making him relax even further against the old bark. Suddenly, he hears a sound to his left, his heading whipping in that direction as a reflect before his mind can even understand what it is that’s happening. Bucky scans the area with his eyes, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, only the same flowers, hedges and trees that were there when he arrived. Eventually, Bucky concludes that it must have been an animal, a rabbit or a squirrel perhaps a bigger bird of a sort. Consciously trying to relax his now tense muscles, he rolls his shoulders and continues reading, taking bites out his scones and sips of the vanilla tea while carefully making sure nothing drops or drips on the book.


	2. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gardener

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> It is currently almost 3 a.m., I started writing this before midnight (maybe??) and yes, I am a slow writer and yes, I basically wrote this in one sitting (even though I knew where I wanted to go with the story) so I apologize about any and all weird grammar things or stuff like that, I just want to post this so I won't stress about it. 
> 
> Also, there might be some (really, really minor) stuff that could be triggering so go to the endnotes for those. I just want to say it here so no one gets upset if they're not okay with that.
> 
> Enjoy reading and good night from me!

He wakes peacefully, first stretching his sore arms, only after opening his eyes. Sitting up on his narrow bed, slowly so he wouldn’t feel faint, He takes a few seconds to just sit there, to breathe, before the rooster’s crowing coming from the stables that are right outside the workers’ quarters shakes him out of his head and he gets up. Going to the shared lavatory he does his business, afterwards scrubbing his teeth as he studies his reflection in the mirror; his blue eyes tired but still bright, just like his mother’s had been. His blond hair flops into his eyes as he takes some water to rinse his mouth, thinking about maybe asking Margaret from the kitchens to cut it out for him when she has time.

He walks back to his private room, the size of a small closet but at least it’s only his. Changing into his work clothes, the young man thinks about what kind of flower he wants to choose today, something more exotic or perhaps an old classic. Sitting back down onto his worn bunk, he ties his shoes, not able to get _him_ out of his mind. Finally finishing his task, he sets off, giddy and eager to select the flower of the day, still having plenty of time. 

Outside in the gardens, he takes a moment to listen to the awakening nature and all of its creatures, the other gardeners still in their rooms waking up or still in slumber or they could be eating breakfast. All he knows that it seems he is the only one outside, except for the chirping birds and the unforgettable plants, the life of it all, that surrounds him, almost holding him as a voluntary hostage. He grew up surrounded by this, nature being everything to him, the place he liked to run around as a child, an escape from the world when his mother died, then, eventually, his responsibility, his profession. 

His mother, the beautiful, altruistic Sarah Rogers, the palace medic, the caretaker, always looking after everyone else except herself. He smiles now as he looks around the places they used to spend time together in, the venue where his interest in nature developed, through his mother’s stories about her hobby that he now does for a living, all things nature and what they are more than what they see. Still looking around, he sees movement in the corner of his eye, high up in one of the multiple windows facing the enormous gardens. His breath catching, this time not due to asthma that bothers him daily, simply a result, that goes unnoticed of him, of the view that his eyes now rest upon; _him_ , sat in front of the window the gardener knows he spends a lot of time on, always reading. As he gazes at him, seeing his main of brown hair, framing his face, almost hiding his focused eyes as they scan the book the man is holding in his lap. _Oh, he looks so lovely_ , our gardener thinks as he struggles to pull his gaze away, knowing that he could be caught staring but not quite having the willpower to pull his eyes away. A few moments pass as he recalls his previous thought, now knowing exactly what flower he wants the man to have, he takes his final glance of him, so high up, so out of reach, and sets into the depth of the garden he knows so well. 

Memorizing his mother, he walks a little further, into a secret spot that he’s confident still only is known to him, no path indicating its location to others. Arriving at the sight of the hedges, he pulls them aside to reveal the whole his mother showed him so long ago. Passing through it, he sees the vibrant wisteria, its flowers blooming in magenta. Admiring the dazzling tree as he walks past it, he thinks about his mother showing him this place, her telling him to make it his own, special spot, only for him to see. It’s hard for him to understand how the massive tree has been hidden from others all this time, suspecting that they don’t care about as he does, only looking at the surface, not interested to dig put deeper. When he reaches the flower brush he knew was there, he plucks one of its flowers gently, not wanting to disturb the other ones. 

Hurrying back to the castle, now knowing _he_ could see him from the windows, the gardener blushes as he thinks about the gorgeous flower held in his hands and the meaning behind the simple-looking thing. Oh, _but he is so lovely_ , he thinks, smiling down at the delicate blossom, knowing the receiver wouldn’t know what it means to him but still wanting to do something. His mother always told him to speak his thoughts, to not be afraid of them. Making others happy was in her nature and he likes to think he is at least partly the same, he never could be quite open as she was. _Secret love_ , he knows he hides it for a reason, can never tell about them out loud to a single soul, hoping still that the _oh so lovely_ and _oh so hurting_ prince sees his messages. Perhaps _he_ will never understand them or even know who they’re from but he is happy if it brings even a slight smile, even a small brightness to the royal man’s days.

Now back at the servants’ door, he makes his way inside and to the kitchens, greeting his acquaintances as he goes. Opening the doors he is immediately greeted by the labour of the hardworking cooks and bakers, preparing breakfast for all of the castle’s residents. Scanning the room for the familiar face, he hears her before seeing her. “Steve! Good morning dear, how are you?” she approaches him, carrying a tray of steaming scones, the smell mouth-watering, soon after setting them to cool while she continues with her work. “Margaret! I am doing splendidly this fine morning. I hope your day has started the same?” Steve answers back enthusiastically, always enjoying their conversations, however short-lived they may be. She smiles back at him fondly, with a twinkle in her eyes as she notices the flower he’s carrying. “I’m good as always, dear”, she answers, giving him a brief hug and going straight back into work. “What’s the name of this one?” she asks with curiosity, peering at him while Steve starts arranging two sets of settings; a simple plate and mug for him and a more elaborate one for the one he got the flower for. “A gardenia”, Steve replies to her question, trying not to blush again this morning under the knowing look she sends him over her shoulder as he sets the flower down with care, arranging it to his liking. 

Just as he’s about to say his farewells, after grabbing a scone and some hot juice for himself, she stops him before he can make a sound with “You should know that he appreciates them, even if he seemingly thinks I’m the one getting the flowers to him.” Steve tries to hide his smile by looking at his worn boots, concluding from her joyous chuckle that he fails miserably as he turns to the doors. “I’m glad to hear”, he says quietly so the others working wouldn’t pay attention to him, just a trivial gardener who’s friends with one of the cooks, making his presence even more unnoticeable by hunching his small shoulders not wanting them to see his red cheeks or notice how her simple statement has affected him. Steve can’t control his body but hating all the same how strongly just hearing someone else mention _him_ makes him react, the way others could find out just from the blush in the tips of his ears. Offering Margaret, or May as everyone else calls her, a final, thankful smile as a goodbye, he takes his food and walks the short journey back to his, finally able to breathe freely as he collapses on the small cot.

_James Buchanan Barnes_ , Steve thinks, sighing as he lays there, staring at the flaking sealing, _oh how I would love to even just hear your voice, to have a conversation, to know your thoughts_. He knows his… admiration of the slightly older man is a little weird to understand, even to him! It’s just… _something_ about him, the way he moves, the way he acts. Steve remembers noticing him for the first time. He had been away from the castle, trying to join the army to do his part in the war, not able to go, the army medics not letting him because of his physique and his past illnesses; telling him he’s too short, too sickly, that he would just be in the way. He had gotten a few months away from the castle, a result of the supervisor being close friends with his mom, giving him all the time he needed to try and do what he wanted. Steve tried to enlist all over the country, in multiple villages but after the long unsuccessful journey, he returned home tired and frustrated. Sam, his best friend who takes care of the horses here, had gotten him some food and told him to go be in nature, take a moment to himself and come to him if he wanted to talk about it. Steve had gladly taken this moment, he had missed the palace’s gardens and everything they meant to him. 

Thus he went and found a nice place right next to the castle walls to just sit down and enjoy the feeling of being home, and did what he didn’t usually do, he stargazed. After watching the stars for a moment or two, he got slightly disinterested and examined the castle instead. And that is the moment, the first time Steve’s eyes saw _him_ , standing at his window, still, as a statue, one arm crossed at his chest, looking to the stars, admiring them as Steve had then admired him. Knowing he was safe in the darkness of the flora around him, all he could do was lie there, blatantly staring at the most beautiful man he had ever seen. The man wasn’t perfect, oh no, despite his fixed position, Steve could see his eyes searching the sky, almost frantic in their movements and the vice grip he had on his own arm, squeezing through his shirt. Not to mention the hair, which was an unkempt mess, dark brown and longer than Steve’s own. Steve could see the man’s faults but still… there was something about him that Steve couldn’t pinpoint, couldn’t say even now after months, but that made him unable to think about anyone else but _him_. Steve didn’t know who he was at first, only that he started noticing the man more, intrigued by him and wanting to know more, even though Steve knew it would never be possible. He noticed how the man spent more and more time in what Steve knew had to be the library, reading, always in the same spot. 

One early morning, as he wondered who the man that had captivated him was, perhaps a visitor considering Steve couldn’t remember seeing him before, Steve decided to do something reckless and take a flower, just one, up to the library, a place he had never visited before. He had seen the man’s pain, recognized it from experience and knew he wanted to give him a flower that stands for _sympathy_ , so the man would know he’s not alone, despite him probably not knowing the language of the flowers. So Steve snuck in the library during the early hours of the morning, after making sure the man wasn’t on the window of course and left the statice in a small glass vase he had taken from one of the tables in the numeral hallways. Leaving just as quickly as he had arrived, Steve hurried to his room quietly as he could, only daring the laugh out loud at the safety of his mission in the privacy of his quarters. 

That was also the morning he found out, completely by accident, who the man was. He was eating with the other workers, too ecstatic to be alone when he heard a few of the young maids gossiping amongst themselves about James Barnes, the youngest and only _prince_ , who had returned from the war a decorated but wounded after shady circumstances, apparently not even speaking a word unlike before his department. They were talking about the way he used to be, the socialite always the life of the party, and how he was _different_ now. They said it with expressions of disgust almost, like he was now somehow _wrong_ , how they had heard of the things that had happened and _blamed_ him, not even fully knowing what had happened, just some hearsay and gossip that they based their opinions and judgement on. Steve had left then, his food unfinished and cold in the table. 

He was so angry; not at the man, _James Buchanan Barnes_ , definitely not him but at the world for being the way it is and its inhabitants, the people, for acting the way they are. He didn’t know the man, had never even seen him up close, the prince never spending much time at the castle when they were younger and now secluded in his space, but he felt an understanding that he hadn’t felt with anyone else before. Steve knew what it was like to be judged by your appearance, the image that you couldn’t control that people took to make their assumptions about the person you were. People had also always made assumptions based on what they thought they knew of him, never trying to actually get to know him but just put their justice on him without a second thought. His dad had died a war hero but people, nasty people, had twisted his legacy and made him out to be a traitor, someone that was anything but the person he truly was, loving and caring, doing everything to keep his family safe. 

When his mom died the rumours had gotten even worse. Everyone had loved his mother but as soon as they got bored they just made her out to be someone they could use for entertainment. Steve still had loyal, close friends in the castle who were on his side and knew the truth but he still felt so _lonely_ ; his prince being the only one Steve felt could genuinely understand him, not look at him with pitying looks like his friends sometimes did. This was all a fantasy, of course, Steve had and would never even meet him; he often dreamt about a world where he was a royal too, perhaps being able to court James properly and more importantly _openly_ , not just by giving him a flower each morning and by sneaking bouquets in places he knew the prince would get them, into his room with other servants, into the library. Steve knew it was pathetic, he was aware, but he couldn’t help himself, wanting to show the other man his appreciation and admiration of him, even if it was from afar and the prince didn’t, wouldn’t ever, know who the gardener was.

Suddenly realizing how much time he has spent daydreaming, Steve curses as he wolfs down his now cold breakfast, almost running out the door. Turning back at the last minute, he takes his dishes, rushes them back to the kitchens, yelling a “Thank you, it was lovely!” to the staff, making his way back to the hallway leading to one of the doors outside. He opens the doors wide open, trying but not managing to jog to the sheds because of his lungs. He has to stop around the corner to catch his chest, hearing footsteps from the direction he came from and hoping that it isn’t the senior head gardener, a grumpy old man _Pierce_ who was in charge and didn’t take kindly to anyone being late. He hears the footsteps lead to the opposite direction and makes it just to the biggest shed before Pierce, who just makes sure everyone is there and then leaves just as fast, probably going to nap or do something else that isn’t working. Steve is glad that the surly man’s retirement is fast approaching, all the other gardeners and yard staff that he mostly talks to are pleasant enough, not including Pierce of course. Steve and the others discuss what they think should get done briefly and go to work, some already doing the basics that need to be done to keep the garden in excellent condition, plugging the weeds being one of them. Steve knows that some of the hedges near the apple trees need to be, and he decides to do just that. He knows the taller bushes need to be done by someone else, but he has gotten this good by using his advantages that people often underestimate about him, his small size one of them.

Nodding to himself he says goodbye to Sharon, one of the gardeners who he is fairly close to due to their close age, and goes to the toolshed that holds all the equipment they need. Steve chooses a small but precise pair of pruning shears, their weight larger than you would think. As he walks on one of the many paths leading to the cluster of apple trees, he hums to himself, still feeling happy about his flower choice of the day, occasionally almost tripping as he loses focus of the path while listening to the wonderful warbling of the many avian species that have made their home here. Nearing the particular hedges, Steve stops whistling to examine them, deciding to start a little bit further and then move toward the castle as he will finish with the hedges. 

While he’s walking, he spots someone on his right, sitting by one of the blooming apple trees and immediately falls on down on the ground, face first, as he realizes exactly who he saw. Staying as still as he can on the ground, trying not to make any more sound so he wouldn’t startle the other, he huffs as the hard tool presses sharply against his hip. After slumping there for a few moments, carefully listening to any sounds the man might make with his good ear, Steve considers the moment of the danger of being discovered over, sitting up as muted as he can, rubbing his hip where he knows a bruise will form. Taking the shears as softly as he, Steve sneaks further away, silent as ever, and all but collapses on the ground when he deems the distance long enough. He had just seen James! In the garden! Eating breakfast and seemingly reading a book!

He had just seen the man, sitting closer than ever, that he was sure he would never have any contact with, that unapproachable, unreachable, for someone like Steve. The man he had been smuggling flowers to, without his knowledge!, while he probably hadn’t thought twice about or thought that came from someone else. As he sits there, staring at his now slightly bruised hands, Steve knows, whether or not James sees him, that Steve is screwed. Not because James would see him, not because he thinks the prince would do anything but because now he has seen James’ eyes, seen the way they sparkle in the brightness of the morning sun, seen the way his luscious hair had glimmered where he had it tied neatly. No, Steve isn’t going the be in trouble for anything that James did unless you count existing and living his life oppositely he has this dilemma because of his emotions, because he knows he won’t be able to stop thinking about James, not now.

It is clear to say that Steve was freaking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> So, Steve mentions people basically judging and being mean because of gossip and prejudice and stuff like that, not any rude language is even used but idk, just wanted to state it here if that makes someone feel uncomfortable.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> \- waterboilers


	3. The First Meeting (kind of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a great friend and Steve must be cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,
> 
> How is everyone doing? Hopefully as good as you can in this situation (it's May 2020 when I'm posting this). This is short (a little under 2000 words) but I have been in a stump with this and finally just wanted to write something and immediately post it to the world because otherwise, it wouldn't go anywhere. It's not even that late this time (just about to turn 11 p.m.) so yay for a proper sleep schedule. 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy reading this! (And may it distract you from your real-life as it did for me.)
> 
> \- waterboilers

Steve has an idea. Sam might be telling him at the moment exactly how bad idea he thinks it is, _actually_ , Sam had been ranting about all the things that could go wrong for some time now, but Steve couldn’t care less. He was grinning uninhibitedly, turning away from his truest friend to prevent Sam comprehending his disinterest in the long but meaningful lecture he was currently being given. Steve knew Sam only wanted the best for him, always had and always will, just like Steve feels for him in return, yet that isn’t enough for Steve to change his mind about this; he was stubborn and Sam knew better than anyone that when Steve set his mind to something, he wouldn’t give up without a fight, even if everyone he knew were against it. Finally turning to look Sam in the eyes, Steve can see the physical change in his expression from frustration to irritable acceptance. 

“ _Fine_ ”, Sam sighs, rolling his eyes as he sees Steve’s now even more giddy expression, “I’ll help you, but _only_ to keep you safe, to make sure you’re not going to get caught”, Sam adds, huffing as Steve starts thanking him and jumping around his taller ally. Sam and Steve, the two boys had grown up together in the castle, both of their parents being permanent workers there. They had met in the garden, a secluded place that the workers’ children could play and spend time in without disturbing the royals with their childish screams and running around. Steve had been drawing in the shade of a simple oak tree; his parents had gifted him charcoal and a new drawing book for his tenth birthday! The young boy was focused on his task, not noticing the other kids around him until he heard sounds of distress. Snapping his tiny head up, Steve had seen a few of the older boys circling someone. Steve couldn’t see who the boys were bullying but could hear them being mean and remembered his mother’s advice to always be kind. Steve had jumped up, shaking his puny fists around, yelling at the mean boys to stop. He couldn’t stop them, of course not, and the boys pummeled Steve and the other boy together, the one he came to know later as Samuel _just call me Sam_ Wilson. 

Afterwards, when the mean boys finally left them alone, lying there on the muddy grass, Steve had asked Sam what had happened, why had the other boys started battering him. He couldn’t understand it at first, Sam seemed okay enough to him, not saying anything rude about Steve’s sickly self. He had had to ask Sam to repeat his almost silent answer twice before he could arrange himself so that his good ear was facing the other boy. “‘S ‘cause I’m black”, Sam had answered, making Steve even more flustered with anger than he had been before. He had tried to get up then, to go show the boys that you couldn’t be mean to someone just because they were different but before he could do that, he had abruptly fallen down due to his hurting knees. Steve knew what it was like to be different, not in the way that Sam stood out but because he was always the smallest boy around and the way his big blue eyes and dark lashes made even some adults think he was a girl at first, which he naturally absolutely _loathed_. 

He didn’t have many friends, none his own age to be precise, having to spend a lot of time in bed sick, drawing to make himself not feel bored, talking to his parents when they had the slightest moment to spare. Also, sneaking out into the gardens was one of his favourite things to do and now he didn’t have to do it alone anymore, he had a best friend. They always used to stay up late into the night, creeping into the gardens and to the stables to look at the animals that the boys adored, Sam even more so than Steve. Often times their parents had found them asleep in a pile of hay, falling asleep in their tiredness, the sounds of the many animals, horses, bunnies and the occasional bird relaxing them to a peaceful slumber. They had grown up together, looking after each other and enduring all the awkward phases. Which lead them to now, to this moment, when they were back to making plans about sneaking in the garden way past when they should.

So, it’s clear that Sam and Steve are close, like brothers from different mothers kind of close. Which is why Sam had always known that Steve was different from everyone else in, not just the way he was short and sickly, he also knew that Steve didn’t have dreams about finding a nice lady and starting a family one day, as he did, but Steve wanted a different kind of future for himself, the kind that definitely did not involve a wife of his own, but the kind where he wanted a nice fella to build a home with. And it wasn’t a problem to Sam; he had known pretty much ever since they met and saw Steve admiring the paintings on the halls about handsome, noblemen. It had always been something that he thought was normal for Steve, Sam fancied girls and Steve boys, end of the story. It was only later when the boys were exposed to the cruelty the world possessed that they found out that what Steve preferred was “wrong”. Not that Sam ever saw it that way but still. Steve had stood up for him and was his friend, and that never changed. He made damn sure to make sure Steve knew that too and the little bonding talk they had had as kids ( _you’re my friend, Steve, no matter if you wanna hold a boy’s hand or a girl’s. We’re gonna be best friends for ever and ever_ ) only made them closer and that had lasted all the way to the present, where Sam was holding Steve on his shoulders, trying not to fall on his ass, because he was a good friend and always there to help Steve out, even when it was because of his desperate fancy to the prince.

Ever since Steve had seen Bucky in the garden _up close_ , he just knew he had to do something for him, had to give him something more. And since he thought a drawing or a painting (as if he had any supplies) would be too obvious it had been given to the prince intentionally, flowers it was. But he couldn’t just get by with morning flowers with breakfast, oh no, he needed to give James something more, something bigger. Cut flowers couldn’t do it anymore, and if Steve was something he was stubborn. So he had decided to bring the mysterious prince a simple potted plant and that he had to leave it somewhere himself. He wanted to know that he had personally placed it somewhere stable that would hopefully provide the prince with joy, at least for a moment. 

So, with the flower pot of planted ranunculuses of all the bright colours, _simple but effective_ he thought, _nothing too over the top_ , he was trying to climb up to the tiny ledge, an oversized balcony if you will, that leads to the prince’s room. It was spacious enough for a stone table built into the balcony that could just hold one pot and a person that could stand before but nothing else. It was the perfect place for the flowers. The prince never stood on his own balcony or anything of the like, so Steve was pretty confident that he wouldn’t think that someone had brought the flowers in the night, as he was trying to do. He’d merely think that I servant had brought them while he was absent, or so Steve hoped if he would even notice them that is. The problem at the moment was, and he would grudgingly admit it but _only_ to himself, that he was too short to reach. The balcony was only on the second floor and surprisingly low at that so he _should_ have been able to reach it with the help of Sam, but that did not seem to be happening. They had both deemed it too risky to use a ladder for they could cause noise and awaken the slumbering prince but oh boy, were they regretting it now when they were getting no results.

“Okay, we need a change of plans,” Sam whispered aggressively to Steve who’s knobbly arse was starting to hurt his shoulders. “I’m putting you down.”

Steve humphed quietly as his feet hit the ground, frustrated with his inability to do something as simple as reach a damn balcony. “Do you have any other ideas?” he whispered back to Sam, who was now massaging his left shoulder. After a few moments of deliberation, together they came up with a new plan that would be perhaps slightly more perilous than just putting the pot to the balcony with the help of Sam and getting the hell out of there. So here’s how they would go about it: Sam would give Steve a boost so that he could climb into the balcony, without the flower pot. Then, Sam would get the pot to the balcony floor by using the first-floor window ledge and then Steve would place the pot where he needed it to be. Then it would be just about getting Steve down by jumping down. It wasn’t a big fall and Sam would be there to steady him and his wobbly knees (even though Steve knew he would have to endure _damsel in distress_ jokes for the foreseeable future from his best friend). And that would be it, simple as that, and they’d get to go to sleep. 

Part one of their new plan went fine enough. Steve was trying his hardest to be quiet as possible and considering he couldn’t see any movement from inside the room, he thought he has succeeded. Sam’s climb and the passing of the pot was graceful and nothing like Steve’s awkward wiggling over the railing of the stone balcony. Steve lifted the pot from the floor and examined the flowers. Considering the suffering the petite flowers had had to go through with their fumbling, they were in good enough shape. Steve patted the soil in the pot a little, making it settle down after being uneven from the displacement, he wanted it to look perfect. He placed the pot in the stand and made sure it was in the middle. Perfect. He gave a thumbs-up to Sam who was watching him anxiously from the ground and turned around so that he could climb over the railing from the side of the balcony and jump to the ground. 

But he didn’t have time to climb over the railing because as soon as he turned and saw what was inside the room he promptly fell over the edge, right on top of Sam. Because Steve didn’t see the white curtains that he was expecting to through the glass, oh no. What he sees is a pair of bright green eyes (how on earth can they be so dreamy even in the low light of the moon?), framed by dark strands of hair and a pair of bunched up eyebrows. 

Steve was royally screwed, and not it the good way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I told you it was a short one, didn't I? I hope everyone is staying stay and healthy, no matter when you're reading this and eventually, everything is going to be alright. This story is annoying to me because I have a vision in my head of what I want it to be, what I wish it would be, but I have no motivation or creative energy to do anything about it. I just want to read this story, not have to be the one to produce the text (if that makes sense). 
> 
> Have a good one!
> 
> \- waterboilers
> 
> PS. I feel like I started writing this story in a very descriptive way and I liked that but right now I just don't have the mental capacity to check Thesaurus for every other word that I write (English is hard) so that's why I think the writing style changed a bit. Hopefully not in a bad way? Comments are appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine. I'm not trying to steal them, this is a text of fiction and meant for entertainment purposes.  
> (c) Disney, Marvel
> 
> Not that I think that anyone would but please don't copy to another site / translate / use in any way without my permission. 
> 
> When I was writing this it was clear that all the flowers (except maybe the apple flowers) have meanings and was written thinking of those so if anyone is interested, below is a link to the site that I mainly used for those.  
> https://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flower-meanings 
> 
> I haven't properly edited this (yet, I hope) and this is my first actual piece of fanfiction I've written so any and all mistakes (grammar etc.) are mine and corrections are welcome. Plus, English isn't my first language so there's that.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> \- waterboilers


End file.
